Bergan\'s first glance around the studio was necessarily a comprehensive one, dealing with general effect, rather than minute detail. A large (though not a lofty) room; a bare floor; walls crowded with designs and studies; four or five busts and statues standing around the sides, and the life-size figure of a child in the middle, of the room;—this was what that first glance revealed to him.

Cathie gave him no time for a second. "Look at the dear little boy, Mr. Arling; do look at him!" she exclaimed, joining her hands over her head, and executing a rapturous pas seul around the object of her delight. "See his cunning little whip, and his funny little feet, and isn\'t he a little white darling!"

Thus besought, Bergan turned his attention to the statue in the midst.

At first sight, it seemed to represent merely a pretty and playful human child, with a toy-whip in his hand, his head half-turned over one shoulder, and an arch and roguish expression, as if bent on some errand of mischief. But, while Bergan continued to gaze, fascinated, the small physiognomy seemed to grow wily and malign, as well as arch; and an intelligence, far more swift and subtle than ever infant of mortal race was gifted withal, informed the tiny features. The light feet, too, were plainly moved by deliberate purpose of guile, rather than childish impulse; and on their soles, broad sinuate leaves were bound, either for protection or disguise.

Bergan looked at the figure long and earnestly, enjoying its delicate freshness and piquancy, but trying in vain to fathom its meaning.

"What will-o\'-the-wisp is it?" he finally asked. "And what is he doing, with his soft cunning and smiling malice?"

"He is a god," replied Astra. "As to his errand, it is the laudable one of cattle-stealing."

"It seems to be a case of very early depravity," said Bergan, smiling, yet puzzled.

"Early enough to be termed \'original sin,\'" returned Astra. "For

\'The babe was born at the first peep of day * *
And the same evening did he steal away
Apollo\'s herds.\'—

Did you ever read Homer\'s \'Hymn to Mercury?\'"

"Never. Indeed, I am not quite sure that I ever heard of it," replied Bergan. "Is it usually counted among his works?"

"I think so; though it is fair to say that his authorship of it has been questioned. At any rate, Shelley has put it into very musical English verse; and there I found my subject. The circumstances of Mercury\'s birth being first narrated, the newborn immortal is described as \'a babe all other babes excelling,\' and also a subtle schemer and thief. He first invents the lyre, and accompanies his own impromptu song of \'plastic verse,\' with it; then he is \'seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat,\' and betakes himself to the Pierian mountains, where Apollo\'s \'immortal oxen\' are feeding. Separating fifty from the herd,

\'He drove them wandering o\'er the sandy way,
But, being ever mindful of his craft,—\'

that is to say, his inborn guile,—

\'Backward and forward drove he them astray,
    So that the tracks, which seemed before, were aft:
His sandals then he threw to the ocean-spray,
    And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft
Of tamarisk and tamarisk-like twigs,\'"—

"I see," said Bergan, smiling. "The consummate little rogue!"

Astra went on:—

"\'And on his feet he bound these sandals light,
The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray
    His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, * *
He from Pieria\'s mountain bent his flight,—\'

driving the stolen cattle before him, of course. And this is the moment at which I have sought to represent him."

"And very perfectly you have succeeded," said Bergan, admiringly. "The arch cunning and malice of the face is simply wonderful. Indeed, it seems to me that the statue lacks but one thing."

"And what is that?" said Astra, quickly; at the same time flashing a swift, searching glance at her work, as if she would fain have anticipated the criticism.

"It does not tell how the story ended."

"Oh!" said Astra, looking both relieved and amused. "I am glad that you did not keep me waiting so long as Michael Angelo did poor Domenico."

"How long was that, pray?"

"You shall hear. Domenico Ghirlandaio, a celebrated Florentine painter, having completed a picture of St. Francis, upon which he had exhausted his utmost skill, and which seemed to him to be perfect, sent for a young artist of great promise, Buonarotti by name, (who had also been his pupil), and asked for his opinion of the work. The young man contemplated it for some moments, said gravely, \'It needs but one thing,\' and departed. The master remained, to study the picture anew, to pore over it hour after hour, and day after day, and rack his brain with the question what it needed. Years after, when Buonarotti had become Michael Angelo, and filled the world with his fame, Domenico sent for him to come to his death-chamber. \'What did the picture need?\' he asked, faintly. \'Only speech,\' replied Michael Angelo. The old master smiled,—and died."

"It is a touching story," said Bergan. "And it is almost an allegory, too. For \'only speech\' is so often the great need of life! All our deepest feeling and best thought are inarticulate. But am I to be indulged with the rest of this story, also?" he added, turning again to the statue.

"I will give it you in brief," replied Astra, "by way of whetting your appetite for the richer savors of the poem itself. Having driven his stolen cattle to Alpheus, the infant god selected two fat heifers for sacrifice. And here, it seems to me, is one of the finest touches in the whole poem. After kindling his fire, slaying his heifers, and offering a portion to each of the twelve gods,

            ——\'his mind became aware
    Of all the joys that in religion are.
For the sweet savor of the roasted meat
    Tempted him, though immortal. Nathless
He checked his haughty will and did not eat,
    Though what it cost him words can scarce express.\'

Here, you see, is real self-denial and self-conquest,—for the sake of making an acceptable sacrifice,—and their deep after delight."

"If the offering had been less ill-gotten," remarked Bergan, somewhat dryly, "I think the \'touch\' would have been still finer."

"I confess that I had forgotten all about that," said Astra, laughing, "in my admiration of the infant god\'s mastery over himself. Still, we cannot expect to find the purity of the Gospel standard of life in the heathen mythology; we can but be thankful for the gleams of Divine light here and there irradiating it, since a whole people long lived and died under its sanction. But, at this rate, my story will never end! The baby god next proceeded to remove every trace of his holocaust, working all night \'in the serene moonshine.\' Then, at break of day, he betook himself to his natal cavern, crept quickly to his cradle, pulled his \'ambrosial swaddling clothes about him,\' and put on a soft semblance of new-born innocence. In due time, Apollo, having discovered the loss of his cattle, and suspecting who was the rogue, came to the cavern, found the \'subtle, swindling baby,\' lying \'swathed in his sly wiles,\' and taxed him with the theft. At once, the young \'god of lies\' shows forth his character. He stoutly denies all knowledge of the mischief; he pathetically declares,—

    \'I am but a little newborn thing,
Who yet, at least, can think of nothing wrong;
    My business is to suck and sleep and fling
The cradle-clothes about me all day long,—
    Or, half-asleep, hear my sweet mother sing,—
And to be washed in water clean and warm,
And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm;—\'

and, finally, he swears that he does not even know \'whatever things cows are!\' However, Apollo turns a deaf ear to all his wiles and pleadings, and compels him to go before Jupiter; who laughs to hear his plausible account of himself,—\'and every word a lie,\'—but finally bids him show Apollo where he has hidden the stolen cattle. This he does, \'nothing loath,\' and finally subdues the sun-god

                            ——\'by the might,
Of winning music, to his mightier will:
. . . . . sweet as love,
The penetrating notes did live and move
Within the heart of great Apollo: he
Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure.\'


"And here we may as well leave them. For the rest of the story,—as well as for many pleasant pictures and nice touches, of which my abstract gives no hint,—you should go to the poem itself."

"I shall be sure to do so," said Bergan, "with this arch, airy little figure to lead the way. But it should be in marble, it seems to me, rather than in plaster."

Astra smiled gravely. "For that, a patron—or, at least, a purchaser—is needed. Marble is expensive as well as indestructible; few artists can afford to put their works into its safe keeping, without help. And perhaps it is as well that such is the case, else Posterity would never be able to bear the stony accumulation that would be heaped on its back."

"I think I can venture to promise that it would never feel this airy creation to be a burden," ............